Pale Dreams
by manic-intent
Summary: Dreamsmoke and couldhavebeen's.  Basch x Balthier.


[A/N: Fic and art inspiration from legal practice diploma course. During a 'picnic' group activity one of my group members brought a gorgeous silver and glass shisha (also a hookah, but NOT a bong, it seems). The apple and molasses 'tobacco' smelled incredible. :D

Pale Dreams

Basch thought Balthier's tendency to wear so many articles of clothing despite the sweltering heat of the desert kingdom mere eccentricity at best, vanity at worst. Until one dank afternoon deep within the abandoned mines of Bhujerba, when they go one turn too deep and chance on a drake too strong for them to handle. Basch remembers the lizard-animal stink of the creature and the sweet-sour rot of leather caught indefinitely in a state of semi-preserved rot, the stench of its breath and the acid of its venom.

Most of all he remembers the sharp yelp from the sky pirate, afterwards, when they have left the drake behind, the pirate's right arm clawed badly from an unlucky swipe, the sleeves in ribbons. He had put his hand all unthinking on an elbow, to inspect the damage, and was taken quite by surprise when Balthier jerked away, as though burned, his eyes wild with something like an animal fear that shutters away quickly under a mask.

The others do not notice, save Fran, who steps carefully between them. Her feral eyes ask Basch silently for patience and understanding, then she inclines her head slowly and carefully takes Balthier by his still-clothed shoulder, and walks him to a corner with soothing words in her ancient tongue, stroking his arm, petting his hair, as though calming a child. Basch, confused, herds the others a little distance away.

When the pirates return Balthier is as suave and sarcastic as ever, and the only indication Basch can find of his previous reaction is a marked tendency to keep Fran between them at all times wherever possible.

Later he is the first to disappear, when they reemerge into Bhujerba under the evening sun. Fran lingers as the rest disperse, but she gives no indication of any intent to start a conversation, until they walk out to the western platforms with its closing market stalls. Amidst the deconstruction of canvas and discarded handicrafts, Basch starts obliquely. "Did I hurt him?"

"Not in a way you would have thought," Fran's reply is as cryptic as it is inhuman in its pronunciation. Her feral eyes are distant, as though she weighs past promises and current injustices. "I speak to you in confidence."

"You have my word that I will keep it."

"You Humes can be cruel beyond what a Viera can even imagine, to your own kin." Fran says delicately, with unconscious and all-encompassing rebuke. "And piracy is not always the adventure that the boy Vaan thinks it is, nor has it quite so much honor amongst thieves." When Basch looks blank, she adds, with a low sigh, "Balthier left his home too young to understand evil. He came by the knowledge with hard lessons."

"The others…"

"Need not know. A woman, and two children," Fran elaborates, when Basch frowned. "He has no cares with such."

--

Basch had just resolved that the conversation with Fran would be the very last of the matter; that he would take care, in the future, to be conscious of Balthier's problem, when there are urgent knocks on his door, as the night grew older.

He opens the inn door of the single room to see Fran, her face uncharacteristically drawn with worry. He guesses it is about Balthier. "What is wrong?"

"I know where he has gone," Fran begins, without any preamble, "But he has not gone to the dreams so long before, and I cannot enter the Den."

"The Den?"

"Your tongue, _sh'iakathan o'shi_," Fran slips into Vieran, agitated, then shakes her head sharply, her white mane silver in the light of the smoky lamps lining the streets. "The white smoke. Smells. The plants make thick dreams. Too much and Viera tend to _kh'arzan_, berserk. I cannot go in there to fetch him."

Basch grimaces. As a soldier certainly he has seen and, a few times, had his share of the dream-weed, or _hashia_, as the Bhujerban folk call it. The dreams the smoke induces are calming to the nerves, but all too pleasant: too much of it and one becomes somnolent, easy prey for the unscrupulous. Small wonder Fran is agitated.

"How long has he been there?"

"Since after the mines."

"Show me where."

--

Basch certainly recognizes the place. He has been here with Vossler and a few others, once, for a few hours, with tea and sweetmeats to soften the effect of the dreams. It was more of a bit of social fun between comrades than addiction, and certainly the tobacco they had smoked was not quite so strong.

Those still here in Velvet past the death of the evening, however, have more specialized tastes. He leaves Fran well upwind of the place, worried and clearly uncomfortable to have asked him for such a form of aid. He knows dimly that somehow, he owes Balthier. The coincidence of this afternoon's incident and _this_ is too much to ignore.

The Velvet is underground, with its discreet entrance in an alley guarded by thickset bouncers. They stare thoughtfully at him, then nod, slow and skeptical, when he says he is here for a friend.

Inside is as dark and stuffy as he remembers, and his senses are assailed by the thick cinnamon fragrance of dream-smoke. He tries to breathe shallowly as he descends flat steps to the makeshift reception, really a Rozarrian half-breed slouched on an array of ratty cushions, nursing a hookah. Half-lidded eyes look up at him with feigned indifference: he knows that whatever the Minder is having, it would certainly not be enough to intoxicate the businessman within him. "Come back tomorrow. Rental is closed."

"I am here for a friend," Basch says, trying vainly to look about in the dim light of the rectangular room. He can see limbs and forms sprawled unmovingly in various alcoves, and the smoke is so thick that the lamp-lights set against the heavy drapes are grayed.

"If you can find him," the Minder shrugs, evidently having dismissed Basch as the honest sort. Basch nods his thanks, and sets about the none-too-pleasant task of trying to identify Balthier.

He finally finds the sky pirate in an alcove by himself near the end of the row. The leather vest has been discarded in a corner, and the sky pirate is languid, catlike, on the cushions, his lithe body stretched out beside a silver hookah. Walnut-brown eyes barely flicker when Basch kneels down beside him. "Balthier."

It takes several heartbeats before the sky pirate slowly glances at him, then there is a slow, lazy smirk. "Fran sent you?"

"She is worried."

"She does that all too often." Balthier's voice is husky and slurred, as he takes another deep draught of the ivory mouthpiece, and breathes out luxuriously. Basch wrinkles his nose quickly: whatever Balthier is having, it seems spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, and something he knows simply by the way his mind feels a little blanketed is likely too strong for someone of the sky pirate's age. "What time is it?"

"Do you do this often?" Balthier doesn't resist when Basch plucks the ivory from his hands.

"Yes. No. Only when… when upset." The grab the sky pirate makes for the pipe is uncoordinated, and fails miserably. "Basch."

"You have had quite enough," Basch hesitates. He has no real idea how he can help Balthier out of Velvet without touching him.

Balthier's sigh is long-suffering. "I suppose I should, before Fran actually tries to come here." When Basch makes no move to help him, the sky pirate chuckles, a bitter, sharp sound. "Do not worry. I think I have had a little too much tobacco to be hysterical."

--

He does not know what triggers the second time: he has been careful, after all. He supposes it could be any number of things, given how Fran is silent when she comes to him for aid. In Rabanastre, the Hargan is in a particularly disreputable corner of Lowtown, down a winding set of cellar passages, poorly ventilated. Not even the cinnamon-smoke can mask the scent of stale sweat and human excess.

Balthier is curled, fetal, on dirty pillows, the pipe held loosely in slack fingers, his eyes vacant. It has been at least half a day, and the scent of tobacco and dream-weed is even stronger, sharper. Basch is dizzy by the time he manages to drape Balthier over his shoulders and half-carry, half-drag him out into Lowtown proper.

It is only a mercy that the rest of the group notices nothing. Balthier is not quite addicted to dream-weed: that much is obvious, though his usage is telling in the sharpness of the hollows of his eyes. No withdrawal needs, or at least the physical sort: but there is likely a little something behind the sharp tongue the pirate has, and the occasional swerve towards reckless personal disclosure and decisions.

Besides, Basch understands dream-smoke as the lesser of social addictions, behind alcohol and the angel-powder. Likely Balthier himself had come across it in a privileged youth in Archadia, with other noble-born peers.

This time, Fran looks a little harried, as she cups a lolling chin with her long, clawed fingers, and examines Balthier's eyes. They sit in the pirates' shared room in the Sandsea tavern inns, Fran on the edge of Balthier's bed, Balthier curled in the covers, and Basch attempting to remove sandal-boots.

When he walks out of the room and closes the door he can hear, so faint that for a moment he wonders if 'tis but his weariness, a slurred, "I like him."

Fran's reply is resigned. "I can see that. Or you would not risk staying in the dream-smoke this long, with no one else about but he to aid you."

"Hmm." Balthier's response was a softening yawn drifting to sleep. "'Tis a pity I can only stand his touch this deep in the pale dream."

--

Basch is preoccupied, naturally, over the overheard comment, but to his frustration neither pirate seems inclined to discuss it with him. Both either instantly change the subject, or somehow tag the other into doing so, in a series of signals that Basch cannot begin to decipher.

When Balthier leaves on 'business' in Archades, Basch supposes circumstantial evidence is really sufficient on which to draw a few conclusions, and manages to confront Fran out of hearing from the rest of the group. "Fran, surely this cannot continue. What Balthier does. If because of me."

"And you like him," Fran's feral eyes are uncompromising, and provide no soft edges for lies. She certainly knew he had overheard.

"I… yes." Basch ducks his head. He has been skirting the knowledge for weeks, not wanting to aggravate Balthier's… condition, or take advantage of him, or precipitate any further trips to dens. "I will not press the issue or tell him, I assure you."

"Hn." Fran's glance is pitying, a particularly disturbing expression from someone taller than him with large rabbit ears. She gives him an address.

--

Balthier arches an eyebrow when Basch settles himself on the cushions across him. The Opal is a decidedly classier establishment than Velvet or the Hargan, and he can tell from the fine clothes of the clientele that this was likely where it had begun, for the sky pirate.

"The coffee is pretty good," Balthier inclines his head at the cup at his wrist. "And the sweetmeats."

The dream-smoke smells different, as well: more exotic. He scents apple, a little lemon, something sweet. Balthier's smile is too carefully sly to hide the hesitance. Whatever is in the hookah today, it is enough to dampen nerves but does not intoxicate: evidently he has been expected.

Basch guesses why almost instantly, when Balthier begins to smoke in the most suggestive manner the ex-Captain had ever seen. The younger man holds blue-gray eyes with his half-lidded own, as he curls his tongue slowly over the tip of the mouthpiece, then wraps lips around it and sucks with a little back-of-the-throat hum that Basch _knows_ he will be hearing in _his_ dreams.

The sky pirate blows a stream of apple-scented smoke to Basch, even as he smirks, and purrs. "Want a taste?"

Basch knows those words are chosen with double intent: he blushes and shifts, a little uncomfortably, when the sky pirate swirls his tongue around the ivory languidly, then scores his teeth lightly over the very tip. "Balthier, cease this. Your condition…"

The playfulness hardens, and Balthier looks away. "Why come to see me, then?"

Basch is startled by the abrupt turnabout in the sky pirate's mood, and says the very first thing on his mind. "I am concerned about your health."

"You can assure your Princess that my habits are very unlikely to reflect on my skills with the rifle." The younger man's voice is flat, verging on unfriendly. "On your way out, please call Iane over."

Ah. "Balthier, I…"

Balthier claps his hands sharply, and the Minder, a rake-thin, bald man that Basch supposes is called Iane, seems to materialize at the corner of the alcove. "Master Ffamran?"

"This man is disturbing me. Have him removed, please."

"Ah. My apologies, Master Ffamran," Iane bows, even as two generically thickset guards appear and grab Basch firmly by his elbows. "He identified himself as your friend."

"He isn't," Balthier doesn't look at Basch when he says this.

"Balthier!"

"Again, please accept my apologies." Iane nods at the guards, who pull firmly at Basch's elbows. He considers making a scene, but decides against it, pushed firmly towards the exit.

Before he moves quite out of earshot, he hears Balthier say, "Give me some of my normal order, Iane."

"Yes, Master Ffamran."

--

Basch feels no one is more relieved than him to see Balthier sober and waiting for them when they finally reach Central. The only hint of the dream-smoke is an even sharper temper than usual, so he thinks, as he glances at Fran for confirmation. And then realizes with sinking, cold weight in his belly that the Viera herself is also pointedly ignoring him.

He thinks it very much unfair. What else was he to say and do, under those circumstances?

--

It is much to Basch's surprise that Fran approaches him at an unholy hour in Balfonheim, in the seaside house that belongs to the sky pirates where he has elected to sleep on the couch, to allow the Princess and the children to take up the spare rooms. Something is different now: her expression is somewhat more guarded, as she leads him past closed doors with the faintest hint of Vaan's snoring to the dark, fish-scented streets of the pirate port.

Balthier is stubborn, at first. "I do not want to leave."

To Basch's surprise, the Minder of the Den shoots him a commiserating glance, then turns to Balthier. The Minder is a plump woman now moving on in years, and something in the hanging jowls reminds Basch of a friendly pug. "Ffamran, go with the nice man."

"I won't be coddled, either," Balthier snaps at her, but she only chuckles and bodily manhandles the sky pirate with frightening strength off the cushions, despite growls and uncoordinated struggles.

Eventually, Basch finds himself out on the street with an armful of furious, drugged pirate, nodding his thanks to the Minder and wondering where the hell Fran was. The situation was uncomfortable: Balthier was so unsteady on his feet that he was leaning his full weight against Basch, flush against his frame, muttering darkly about Reddas and his 'fucking babysitter network'. "Where is Fran?"

"I left her there," Basch gestured at a now-empty spot next to a folded stall, confused himself. "Do you think something happened to her?" He can think of no other reason why she would not be here.

Balthier lets out a chuckle all too long and loud for something not meant to be amusing. "Nothing happens in Balfonheim that Reddas does not wish to happen, and he is very fond of Fran. If she is not here…" Basch hisses, as fingers turn questing behind his back, slipping down to cup his arse.

"Balthier."

"Fran tells me you like me." Balthier whispers against his neck, ticklish and hot. "Is this true?"

Basch takes a long, deep, steadying breath, for patience, for honor and for his own peace of mind. Besides, they are still in public. "Enough not to want you like this."

He feels Balthier's brow stitch against his skin. "You can only have me like this. Out of the dreams…"

"No." He pulls Balthier's questing hand gently but firmly away.

"Fuck your honor," Balthier says, slowly and bitterly, but is thankfully submissive and quiet on the way back.

--

Fran apologizes to him when Balthier is tucked abed, perched on the corner of the low table in the living room, with Basch half-curled on the couch. She looks uncomfortable, again: Viera hardly ever do anything with which to feel regret, it seems. She concludes with a, "I should have asked Reddas instead."

"I did not mind." Basch tries to sound reassuring, but fails. Balthier's last words echo continuously in his mind, and he wonders if he was somehow _wrong_ to have pushed the pirate away.

"No, he has hurt you, and I knew he would." Fran says quietly. "I had hoped he would act otherwise, but I always forget he is still young."

"Thank you, Fran," Basch says simply, touched by Fran's concern for her partner.

The Viera shrugs one perfect shoulder. "Viera have no children."

--

Balthier now tries his best not to speak to Basch at all, at any time, even on the far fewer incidents where Fran approaches Basch in the night for retrievals. He tries several times to explain his words, or at least to make overtures on the basis of friendship, but all attempts are sharply and coldly rebuffed.

It is such that Basch does not notice when Balthier leaves the _Strahl _for _Bahamut_; later, when pretending to be his brother over the intercom, he struggles to keep his voice from cracking.

Pale dreams fade too soon on the morrow, and it is soon too late to think of what could have been. His memories of Balthier remain this: fingers carefully pulling cuffs over delicate wrists, the fierce, wild grin with hands splayed over the controls of the _Strahl_, gunsmoke and leather, and lips wrapped in a deliberate cat's smile over an ivory pipe.

-fin-


End file.
